The Flying Stars
by Asagi Tsuki
Summary: (third instalment of Father Brown Universe) in which Sherlock reluctantly does a favour for Mycroft, Lestrade is an unwilling participant of a pantomime, and Jean carries a Swiss army knife around in her purse


**The Flying Stars**

By: Asagi Tsuki

Pairing: hint of Sherlock/fem!John

Summary: in which Sherlock reluctantly does a favour for Mycroft, Lestrade is an unwilling participant of a pantomime, and Jean carries a Swiss army knife around in her purse

Warning: OOCness, AU

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes is the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the BBC version, of course, doesn't belong to me as well. Father Brown belongs to G.K. Chesterton and I hold no claim on anything

A/N: I know that The Flying Stars is written before The Eye of Apollo, but eh. I have only read the first two books so my choice of cases is quite limited until I read more. There is no murder in this case, and it's quite a light-hearted one, but I figured it's a perfect scenario for a favour asked by Mycroft. Some differences from the original story, obviously, both minor and somewhat major

Again, heavy hints of Sherlock/Jean in this one. It should happen in the next case, but I'm crossing my fingers. I've never written a really slow romance like this before . but their getting close and dancing around each other are too cute to be rushed

I know that this is really late, but I've been really distracted lately . but here's the third instalment as I promised. I'm working on three other Sherlock fics at the moment, one is almost done, one is halfway done, the last one is just started ._. but well, might take a while. As might the fourth instalment.

Anyway, onto the story. By the way this happens directly after the "Can You See the Moon?"

**The Flying Stars**

Ever since they returned from arresting the fraudulent priest of Apollo, Jean had decided that while she was living with Sherlock (and that fact wasn't going to change in the foreseeable future), she should never expect anything normal to happen in her life. Sherlock and normal didn't belong in the same sentence.

Yet she still had a mini heart attack when she woke up with a horrible ache on the side of her neck, having had fallen asleep on the couch leaning against the pole that was Sherlock Holmes, and the first thing she saw was Mycroft sitting in her armchair sipping tea calmly.

"Good morning, Doctor. I hope your neck isn't killing you too badly."

"Oh, no, not really," Jean said as she groaned, massaging her cricked neck. "To what occasion do we owe this house visit?"

"I have a favour to ask of Sherlock," Mycroft said easily, "and he refuses to be in the same room with me before you're awake."

As if on cue, Sherlock walked back into the living room from the kitchen, still glaring at Mycroft.

"Now, now, you've run out of favours and it would be too bad if you can't get what you want from me when you need it, wouldn't it?" Mycroft asked. "Would you like a cup of tea, Doctor?"

"Oh. Oh, I'm fine," Jean said as she blinked the sleep away from her eyes. "This is way too early for any intelligent discussion."

"There shall be no discussion of any nature whatsoever," Mycroft said simply. "This is not a request. It's an order."

"And since when did you become a dictator, Mycroft?" Jean asked as she chuckled, running her hand through her tangled hair. "Ugh, I should cut my hair soon. It's been giving me more and more trouble each day."

"Don't," Sherlock said as he walked to sit in his armchair. "I like your hair."

"Yes, and I suppose I should live with horrible bed heads and long hair care sessions for your sake."

"Of course."

"Sherlock, that was—oh never mind."

Mycroft cleared his throat. "When you're doing being schmoopy," he said, "here's the details of my request. Read it now and be ready for it, as it happens this evening. It's when the play starts."

"You're still watching too much crap telly," Sherlock said as he rolled his eyes. He picked up the document and skimmed through it before handing it over to Jean who looked at him strangely. "Your business here is done. Show yourself to the door."

"Sherlock, be nice," Jean chided as she read the document.

An aristocrat family was holding an informal dinner party of some sorts, in which they would do a pantomime. The lord of the house was known for being eccentric. His daughter was involved in a scandal because of her involvement with a commoner; a journalist of a not really well-known publication, and his best friend was known for being a show off.

In fact, the best friend and godfather of his daughter, Leopold Fischer, had just gotten his hands on a set of perfect, brilliant diamonds that were called The Flying Stars. He had said he would give them to Ruby, his goddaughter, as a present, but he would keep it on his person the whole night so that any guest who wanted to see them would be able to, before he gave them to her the next morning.

"Here is the invitation to the ball," Mycroft said as he handed a small envelope to Jean.

Jean opened the letter and read the card. The invitation only named Mr. Holmes, no first name, and he was allowed to bring a guest.

"Right, so Sherlock will pose as the Mr. Holmes invited in this letter and I will be the plus one?" Jean asked. "Is there a dress code for this occasion? I don't think an aristocrat family would appreciate me turning up dressed in a hand-me-down jumper."

"Way ahead of you, my dear doctor," Mycroft said, standing up and walking towards the front door. "Anthea will swing by with the clothes for you tonight. Oh, and I've made an appointment with a hairdresser and make up artist for you. It is only appropriate for my companion to be refined and sophisticated."

"Are you saying I'm barbaric?" Jean complained.

"The words are your own," Mycroft said as he laughed, then exited the flat.

Jean stared at the door long moments after Mycroft had gone, then looked down at herself. She was wearing her father's old jumper and a pair of worn pyjama pants. She then looked up at Sherlock. "What's wrong with what I wear?"

"Nothing if the other is either blind or as fashionably challenged," Sherlock stated and Jean pouted. "There is nothing wrong with you, but let's admit it, you have no sense of fashion. Do us a favour and let him do what he wants. I wouldn't want you to be harassed because they thought I'm bringing a homeless girl with me for free food."

Jean shot him an indignant look and left in a huff.

Anthea dropped by as promised with a black ball gown that made Jean look fairer than she really was. She complained about the fluffy skirt, saying it made it difficult for her to walk about, but no one really paid attention to her. She was then brought to the hairdresser and only returned two hours later, when Sherlock had just finished his latest experiment on the effect of morphine on certain physiological parameters.

"Jean, now that you're here I need you to—oh..."

"What? What is it?" Jean asked, immediately self-conscious. Her hand shot up to her hair, trying to straighten out the curls at the end of her locks. "Did they overdo it? Oh, I knew they did. I should have said no when they—"

"You look good."

Jean paused. She stared at Sherlock. "You're not saying this because you're afraid I'd do that liver biopsy without your consent?"

"There are several problems with that, mostly ethical," Sherlock said as he rolled his eyes.

"When have you ever cared for ethics?" Jean challenged.

"True, but no, that's not the only reason," Sherlock said. He stepped forward and took a lock of Jean's hair in his hand. "You look good."

The hairdresser had cut Jean's hair into a layered cut, with her bangs falling around her face perfectly. The ends of her locks were curled loosely and the two of them had to fight the temptation to play with the curls. She had very light make-up on, as she was a naturally attractive person. She was beautiful, but it was her bright, genuine smile that charmed people around her. That, and her sincerity and loyalty.

"Well, who knew that you are Cinderella," Sherlock said with a chuckle and Jean laughed with him.

"I'm sure Mycroft would throw a fit if he knows we're calling him the fairy godmother."

"Well, put on your dress then. The pumpkin should be here anytime soon," Sherlock said with a shrug.

Jean walked up to her bedroom, muttering about how unfair it was that Sherlock got to go dressed as he usually was, because no matter where he went, he always dressed neatly in a crisp white shirt and dark suit. When a small voice at the back of her mind reminded her that during high school, she was always helplessly attracted to men who dressed smartly, she pointedly ignored it.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

The Adams residence could be described as a mansion if they wanted to. It was certainly big enough, with two wings and a ballroom in the middle. The eccentric Mr. Adams liked to throw parties for absolutely nothing and Mrs. Adams liked to bask in the praises and glory. Their party-throwing habit was halted when the scandal involving Ruby made it to the news, but it continued again shortly after.

Ruby did get involved with the journalist, but after the initial hype had worn down, the only one still annoyed at that notion was only Mr. Fischer, the godfather. He always said that Ruby could do better, but since the family didn't make as much a fuss, Ruby stayed together with the journalist who was known as Mr. Crook.

One of Mycroft's chauffeurs had driven them to the Adams residence, and if the guard had lifted an eyebrow when he saw Jean stepping out of the door farther from the gate and walking around the car to meet Sherlock in front of the gate, he said nothing about it.

"Mr. Holmes and his guest. Welcome," the guard said as he accepted the invitation card. "Please make your way to the ballroom. Dinner will be served approximately ten minutes into the play."

"Thank you," Jean said as she smiled and nodded at the guard before following Sherlock into the manor.

"I didn't know he gave you a purse as well," Sherlock commented as he looked down at the purse Jean was clutching in her hand. "You didn't bring anything valuable, did you?"

"I sure hope that's not your way of saying that my phone is rubbish," Jean said as she blinked. "I do bring my phone, and you know that."

"The words are your own," Sherlock said and Jean elbowed him harshly. "What else did you bring?"

"Swiss army knife," Jean said easily, as if she was saying that she brought make up with her. Sherlock's steps didn't falter in the slightest, and so in a testament of how unlike a woman she was, it was actually more normal of her to carry an army knife around instead of compact powder.

Her grandmother would probably be rolling in her grave. She did try to bring up both Harry and her as feminine, lady-like women, but that was all before they worked at the brewery.

"Good. Hopefully there won't be a need to use it, but keep it handy," Sherlock said, steering Jean towards the ballroom. There were dining tables scattered around the perimeter, and the centre was emptied to act as a dance floor. An orchestra was playing slow, sweet music on the stage as a prelude to the pantomime that would be performed on stage later.

"Oh, hello, Mr. Holmes," the eccentric Mr. Adams greeted as he approached them. He had an earpiece on and that was how the guard told him which of his guest just entered. "You look... young."

Jean covered her mouth and coughed to hide her snicker. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Good evening, Mr. Adams," Sherlock said, turning on his fake charm. "Wonderful place you've got here. I shall look forward to the play, if it's as good as the orchestra playing. Tell me, do you have a role in the play?"

"Oh, you know me too well, Mr. Holmes," Mr. Adams said as he laughed boisterously. "Indeed, I will be in the play, as will be my daughter, Ruby."

"There wasn't a play in the party you originally planned, was there?" Sherlock inquired. "You sent an amended invitation later on in the week."

"Indeed," Mr. Adams said as he nodded thoughtfully. "That man there," he said, motioning at a tall, white man with dark blond hair standing by the refreshment table, "is my brother-in-law, a Canadian named James Blount. My younger sister had gone to America years ago, then moved to Canada. He's visiting now, to have a look at England, I suppose. She said they might move back to England if he likes it here."

"He's the one who suggested the play, then?" Jean asked.

Mr. Adams nodded in confirmation. "One of his friends, he said the name is Florian, wished to stay a while here. Florian, he said, is an entertainer, a well-known one in their city, so it would be a waste to have him do nothing, that's what he said. He and Ruby came up with the harlequinade idea. It's not really a play, is it?"

"If you want to be technical, yes," Sherlock agreed. "And I believe your friend, Mr. Fischer, is showing the Flying Stars tonight? Do you think we could possibly have a look?"

"Oh, go on," Mr. Adams said. "There he is, sitting at the back. He likes to show off; he'll show them to you if you just ask."

"Of course," Sherlock said, giving the older man a tight-lipped smile. "Do excuse us, Mr. Adams. I'd like to have a chance to see the diamonds before the play starts."

"Be my guest, Mr. Holmes, and..."

"Watson," Jean said as she bowed at Mr. Adams.

"Right, Miss Watson. Be my guest, he'll be more than happy to know there are even more people interested in the diamonds," Mr. Adams said with a wide grin before turning to greet the newly arrived guests.

"You two are expecting something to happen, aren't you?" Jean asked as they made their way to the back, towards Mr. Fischer. "I doubt Mycroft would have us come here otherwise."

"I see that I have taught you well," Sherlock said and Jean complained, saying it made her sound like his pet, but he dismissed it. "There will be an attempt at the diamonds tonight, of course. The way he flaunts the diamonds calls for trouble."

"I agree," Jean said. "You're suspecting the Canadian."

"He's an outsider," Sherlock said, glancing at James Blount. "Mr. Adams has never seen Mr. Blount before, so he took his word because his sister said that Mr. Blount does have the intention to see England. However, you cannot tell if that is the real Mr. Blount or not."

"True, it was convenient," Jean commented. "But he must have planned it quite thoroughly for his visit to coincide with Mr. Fischer's visit."

"It's not coincidence. The diamonds are Miss Adams' birthday present," Sherlock said. "Mr. Fischer is known to like showing off, but something this valuable will not be given away without an important event. The birthday is tomorrow."

"And you know this how?" Jean asked as she frowned.

"Simple. Ever since the scandal, the Adams family hasn't thrown a party for Ruby. It might be to show her that they are still mad at her for causing the scandal in the first place, but both Mr. and Mrs. Adams love their only daughter and parties too much to not celebrate her birthdays. They come with a compromise, that is to throw a party on the night before, then have a quiet one on the day," Sherlock explained. "It is obvious from the way Mr. Adams avoided mentioning the occasion that warrants such an expensive gift. He doesn't want people to think that he's deliberately not celebrating Miss Adam's birthday. They wouldn't understand."

"Ah. Of course. Obvious," Jean said, still blinking from the lingering confusion. "Well, here he is. I'll go talk to him."

The two approached Mr. Fischer who was sitting by himself at a small table, drinking a glass of red wine and smoking a cigar.

"Good evening, Mr. Fischer," Jean greeted as she smiled at him. "Lovely ball, don't you think?"

"Oh, yes, Charles always outdoes himself," Mr. Fischer commented. He turned to take a good long look at Jean, then at Sherlock. "So, you're here to see the Flying Stars?"

Jean's smile widened. "I heard they're brilliant."

"You heard right," Mr. Fischer said with a proud grin. He pulled out the case from the tailcoat of his suit and showed the row of diamonds to both Sherlock and John. "Beautiful, aren't they?"

"Yes, they are," Jean said, admiring the diamonds. "May I touch them?"

"Of course," Mr. Fischer said, setting down his wine glass. He put the case on the table between him and Jean, but kept his eyes trained on her while she picked one up and inspected it closely.

Jean held the diamond in front of her face, looking at it closely, then sighed. "It is indeed beautiful," she said, setting the diamond back with the other two. "Well, I suppose we should go find our table now. Thank you for your graciousness, Mr. Fischer. I'm sure Miss Adams would appreciate the gift."

"Oh, just being curious, what do you think about the brother-in-law, Mr. Blount?" Sherlock asked quickly as Jean stood up from her seat.

"The Canadian?" Mr. Fischer asked, scoffing. "He's loud, brash, and juvenile; not what you would call a gentleman. In fact, he was the one who came up with this foolish pantomime idea. I visited the changing room just now to check up on Ruby, and they were playing that childish pin the tail on the donkey game. Even had the gall to pin the donkey tail on me, the fool."

Sherlock gave him a somewhat sympathetic smile, although knowing Sherlock, it probably wasn't sincere. Jean was amazed at his acting skills.

"Wouldn't want him to move to England then, would you?" Sherlock asked with a chuckle. "Well, we really should get to our table. The play would be starting shortly, I believe."

Mr. Fischer dismissed the two of them and they walked off to a small empty table close to the entrance and the stage. The stage was actually located beside the entrance to the ballroom, for reasons unknown. Jean thought Mr. Adams didn't want the performers on stage to be distracted whenever the door was opened, because it was located at a blind spot if seen from above the stage.

They had barely sat down when Sherlock turned to her and asked, "Fake?"

"Yeah," Jean said as she nodded. During the ride, Sherlock had given her a crash course in two easiest ways of telling diamond from other materials. "It has a dull shine, and the fog stayed on longer than it should."

"He has made his move then," Sherlock said, eyeing Blount. "Possibly when he pulled the donkey tail trick. He waited until the play was about to start, trusting Fischer and his overprotective tendencies to come check up on Miss Adams just before it started to make his move. It was risky if he did it before, when the guests would still be flocking around Fischer to have a look at the diamond."

"Overprotective tendencies?" Jean asked as she frowned. "But—"

"Not against Blount, mind you," Sherlock cut her off. "Fischer still dislikes Crook with a passion."

"Oh, that's right," Jean said, nodding. "Well, should I send Lestrade a text?"

Sherlock seemed to ponder it for a moment. "No, text Mycroft instead. He will choose the people he wants to send here to take care of the thief. Meanwhile we will try to keep it as quiet as we can."

"Alright," Jean agreed.

_Thief has made his move. Diamonds in his hands – JW_

_Perimeter will be secured in thirty minutes. Do not alert Fischer. Try to keep him in sight at all times – MH_

_Will do – JW_

Jean nodded to herself and told Sherlock what Mycroft said. He had expected the thief to make his move, then, because it took them at least an hour from their flat to the Adams residence earlier. If Mycroft's men could get there in thirty minutes, then they were probably already on the way.

Dinner was served as soon as Jean put her phone back into the purse, and just after all the entrees were served, Mr. Adams got onto the stage and began talking while the orchestra cleared their chairs and instruments away. He told the guests that there would be an interlude, a pantomime of some sorts, before they would then be entertained by the orchestra again.

Jean frowned. Mr. Adams continued and said the pantomime shouldn't take longer than fifteen minutes, as it was a really short and fun one. The play started, and Sherlock made sure everyone was on stage before he went off to the dressing room to see if the thief, the not-Blount, had stored it somewhere in the dressing room to be picked up later.

Meanwhile, Jean turned back to her phone.

_Thirty minutes is too long. Thief has chance to escape in fifteen minutes – JW_

_NSY already on their way. ETA in ten minutes, they will enter the grounds – MH_

Jean considered Mycroft's text, then pulled out the Swiss army knife from her purse and began to work.

Meanwhile Sherlock had pretty much turned everything upside down in the dressing room in his search, and was returning them to where they belonged so no one suspected he had been there. He could hear the pianist playing the accompaniment to the harlequinade, and the music had reached a climax.

He needed to hurry.

His phone vibrated in his pocket and he quickly pulled it out, not bothering to look at who the caller was, his other hand still busy trying to restore everything to their original positions.

"What is it?"

"He didn't put them in the room. He's got them on him."

"And how do you tell?"

"Because Lestrade is in the bloody play!"

"What?" Sherlock asked, pausing for a second before he continued again, at a pace more like a madman.

"Apparently in the climax, the harlequin will fight a police officer, who is supposed to be Florian. It's Lestrade."

"I didn't know he's interested in plays," Sherlock said as he snorted. "And I didn't know his first name is Florian."

"Sherlock!"

"I know, I know. Just keep an eye on him. It's only another ten minutes before his men will be here. Do what you must."

Sherlock finished putting everything back in place and exited the dressing room in time to see the harlequin exiting through the door behind the stage that led to a low balcony, and Jean vaulting herself up onto the stage and giving chase, the skirt of her gown cut to knee length. By the shoddy workmanship, he deduced that she had forcefully ripped it off after making the initial cut with the army knife.

She had single-handedly pulled herself up onto the stage, which stood at least one meter above the floor, while holding onto her phone and the army knife in her other hand. Sherlock should ask her if she had experience in break dancing and if that was the reason why her arms were strong enough to pull off the stunt.

And he hoped to whatever deity was up there that Mycroft would never tell Jean the price of the dress, lest she swore herself to slavery under his command to try and repay it.

The ballroom was in confusion. Some of the guests wanted to start screaming in panic, while the rest was wondering if it was all part of the play. Sherlock made a beeline to Mr. Adams, telling him to try and keep everyone calm while his assistant gave chase to the thief.

"Thief?" Mr. Adams asked, his mouth gaping in surprise.

"Mind you, it's not really James Blount," Sherlock said easily. "Saw it as an opportunity to steal the diamonds. He probably won't be coming back now."

Mr. Adams looked like he was trying to decide between questioning how Sherlock knew, and panicking. The Flying Stars were worth quite a fortune because of their size, after all, and if Fischer knew that they were stolen, he would no doubt throw a huge fit.

"He won't escape," Sherlock said, glancing at his phone. Five minutes until Mycroft's men secured the perimeter, but if the thief somehow managed to find an opening before the whole perimeter was secured and could escape from there, they would be stuck with a harder time of trying to track him down.

And no doubt Mycroft would say it was a failure and he owed no favour to Sherlock.

"How are you so sure?" Mr. Adams asked as he frowned.

"I believe in my partner," Sherlock said, then gave chase, running up the stage and out to the low balcony. He looked around, and spotted the thief running in the distance. He spotted the heels Jean came in beside his feet, and knew that she had abandoned them and was running barefooted across the backyard.

"Who the heck grew a jungle for a backyard!?" Jean grumbled as she ran after the thief who was dressed in a tacky harlequin costume. The tall blades of grass tickled her feet but she kept on pushing forward, ducking to avoid the low hanging branches. The thief knew he was being chased, and that Jean was steadily gaining in on him.

The man turned towards a part of the backyard with a lot of trees. Sherlock saw Lestrade's team running towards the two, and he could hear the shouted curses from the distance, silently wondering what was happening that caused Jean to lose her temper and control over her potty mouth. Of course, Jean made sure not to openly shout expletives, instead switching them for milder words, but it was the thought that counted.

He concluded that she probably learned all those colourful words in the bar. Drunken people swore a lot, after all.

The thief grunted as he was tackled down onto the ground by Jean, and Sherlock turned towards Mr. Adams who had joined him at the low balcony.

"Told you so."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

The New Scotland Yarders had cuffed the thief and brought him towards the police car. One of the officers brought the stolen diamonds back to the manor and gave it to Mr. Fischer, who had predictably exploded when he knew that the diamonds were stolen in the first place.

"So you're what, a detective?" Mr. Fischer had asked Sherlock.

"A consulting detective, the only one in the world, and the girl earlier is my partner and assistant, Doctor Jean Watson," Sherlock said as he nodded curtly. "We believed there might be a theft attempt."

"Oh," Mr. Adams said, blinking in realisation. "So that's why you look young. You're not the Mr. Holmes invited, are you?"

"No, that would be my brother," Sherlock confirmed. "Well, there are your diamonds. I believe we should leave it to the police regarding the exposure this case should get, shouldn't we? Wouldn't want unnecessary public commotion."

"Oh, yes, of course," Mr. Adams said. "The important thing is that it isn't stolen, I believe. There is no need to publicize a case closed."

"Very well. If you would excuse me, I'd like to check up on my assistant," Sherlock said, but before he could turn around and leave, light footsteps approached him, interrupted by the occasional sniffles.

"Jean, what—" Sherlock frowned and turned around, but paused when he saw Jean. Her hair was a mess; the long, smooth curls were gone, her hair barely reaching her shoulders and the ends were a horrible, choppy mess. "What happened?"

Jean gave Sherlock a watery smile before she suddenly broke down crying. Sherlock looked alarmed, as he had never had to deal with a crying girl before, and wasn't sure what to do in such situation. Ruby, who had joined them for the explanation after the commotion, was mouthing instructions to him from the side, and he gingerly wrapped his arms around the distraught girl.

"You did this to yourself," Sherlock noted as he ran his hand through Jean's hair, "with the army knife. What did he do to you?"

"Got her hair snagged among the branches," Donovan said as she approached them and patted Jean's shoulder sympathetically. She had a kind of respect towards the doctor for the fact that she could withstand being in Sherlock's company for longer than five minutes. "Had to cut them off to give chase to him. We wouldn't have caught the bastard otherwise."

"Not a surprise. You're incompetent after all," Sherlock said as he glared at the Yarders that had just gotten there, but turned his attention back to Jean before Donovan could say something to him. The woman rolled her eyes but walked off without saying anything, not wanting to upset Jean further as the girl happened to have a soft spot for the consulting detective.

"Jean," Sherlock started, "you did a wonderful job."

"I'm sorry," Jean said as she wiped her tears and Sherlock gave her his handkerchief. "I'm sorry."

"What are you sorry for?" Sherlock asked as he frowned. "You haven't done anything wrong."

"Don't you like my hair?" Jean asked slowly. "I didn't want to cut it off, but I had to. Sorry."

Sherlock's eyes widened a fraction in realization. "Oh," he breathed out. "Don't be silly. I like your hair because it's _yours_. I would have said I liked it even if it was a bush."

Jean chuckled, laughing through the small sobs. "So you don't mind?"

"I prefer long hair, but it doesn't matter. It's still nice because it's still yours."

Jean smiled widely at him. "You're too sweet."

"Only for my favourite doctor."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Sherlock and Jean walked into their flat and saw Mycroft sitting in Sherlock's armchair. He looked up when the door creaked open and nodded in acknowledgement at them. Jean wondered how he managed to get in, but then again, he already made his way in early morning, he could make his way back in whenever he wanted.

It was Mycroft, after all, and he always liked to turn up at unexpected places at unexpected times.

"Doctor," Mycroft said as he stared at them closely. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm okay," Jean said quickly, using Sherlock's handkerchief to wipe the last of the drying tear tracks from her face. It was embarrassing enough to break down in front of Sherlock, and she didn't want to look like a mopey teenage girl. "It was just a momentary thing."

Mycroft nodded at her. "Well, good work. Congratulations on a job well done. I'll leave you two alone for now."

Just as Mycroft walked out of the flat, the clock chimed, signalling that it was midnight. Jean laughed and Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her.

"It's midnight," Jean said, "I guess it's time for me to stop playing princess. I'm only a housekeeper sitting in the ashes—sometimes literally," she added, shooting a sharp look at Sherlock who looked entirely too undisturbed by it.

"You're hardly a housekeeper," Sherlock said with a shrug. "You're the doctor with excellent housekeeping skills."

"And that makes a difference how?"

"Go trim your hair."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Jean had trimmed the ends on her hair so that it was nice and even, compared to the mess earlier. She had calmed down considerably after the little talk with Sherlock, and seeing her with short hair that barely brushed her nape while dressed in an oversized jumper reminded Sherlock of a little child.

"Why do you care about what I think?" Sherlock asked once they were settled in the living room, watching late night shows.

Jean was quiet for a long moment, but Sherlock didn't say anything else, giving her all the time she needed to think over her response.

"You are... an important person," Jean said. "I care for you. You're brilliant, and wonderful, and... you remind me of Gladdie."

"Gladdie?"

"Our family dog."

Jean laughed at Sherlock's affronted look. "It's really not a bad thing," she said, still laughing. "Gladdie's really smart. He's loyal, considerate, a really good friend. He's always there when I need him, offering silent support and never judging me. When... when I first came to see you about Welkin, that's the impression you give off."

"You know things before I even told you. We don't have to go through the trouble of discussing painful subject matters because somehow _you know_. You're curt, tactless and rude, but never to me. You told me that I'm a reliable friend, and so are you. I try to be there for you because you're there for me."

"I still didn't expect you to cry over your hair because of me."

Jean chuckled, flushing slightly in embarrassment. "I never cared about myself that way. I use lip balm and moisturizer to keep my skin from drying off, but that's it. I don't go to hairdressers, I cut my hair myself. After a while, I grew tired of cutting it so I just let it grow. I guess, I didn't expect anyone to actually find any part of me... nice."

"You should."

"What?" Jean asked in surprise.

"You should expect it," Sherlock repeated, staring straight into Jean's eyes. "You're a beautiful woman."

Jean flushed deeper, but smiled at him brilliantly. "Thank you, Sherlock," she said, then after a moment of deliberation, she got on her knees on the couch and leaned over to press a kiss on his cheek. She started to move back but Sherlock's hand on her lower back held her in place.

"Mycroft told me to tell you that I appreciate you," Sherlock said, staring straight into Jean's eyes. His gaze was unwavering and Jean was the one fidgeting instead. "Did I make it obvious?"

"Quite," Jean confirmed. "I appreciate you too. It's more than saving money in rent."

"You said you're not going to leave me," Sherlock stated and Jean nodded. "But for how long?"

"For as long as you want me to stay."

"It doesn't work that way, Jean," Sherlock said as he shook his head. "You're the one who has a social life, not me. You're the one with expectations, not me. What would you do when you find a nice man, then?"

"At this rate we're going, I don't see myself finding a nice man in the foreseeable future."

"But I want you to stay beyond that foreseeable future."

Jean stared at Sherlock with something akin to amazement, probably because of the fact that Sherlock doesn't bare his thoughts so plainly to others often. She fought against the urge to look outside and see if the moon was shining blue.

"What are you trying to say?" Jean asked as she frowned.

"I am at war with myself," Sherlock said. "Someone so dedicated to their family like you would want a family of their own. The logical choice would be to find a nice man who shared similar values to settle down before it's too late and raise a bunch of children together. And yet, I don't want you to leave. Not now, not ever."

"Oh, Sherlock," Jean whispered softly, supporting her weight with one hand while the other was raised to rest on his cheek. "Thank you for telling me that. I can't promise you anything yet because I can't predict the future, but what makes you think you won't be able to change my mind and make me stay?"

"It's not a logical choice," Sherlock breathed out.

"You're illogical. I'm illogical. _We're_ illogical."

"Indeed," Sherlock said with a small smile. "But would you really give up the vision of family life that you have entertained since you were young for a narcissistic sociopath?"

"Well, my mother seems to like you enough," Jean said with a chuckle, lowering her hand to rest it on Sherlock's arm instead. "I'm an open-minded person, Mr. Holmes. Otherwise I wouldn't have moved in with you."

"Point," Sherlock agreed. "Then I should do my best to convince you that I am the best illogical choice."

Jean laughed, resting her forehead on Sherlock's collar before quickly pulling back because it _hurt_. She really should make Sherlock eat more to get more meat over those bones. She looked into his eyes, then, seeing the sincerity behind those orbs, and smiled to herself.

The hand on her lower back tightened its grip, pulling her closer, and she involuntarily leaned closer to Sherlock, until they could feel each other's breath on their face. A short, comfortable silence fell upon them, and...

"Sorry, Sherlock, do you mind letting go? This position is really awkward and my back is starting to kill me."

**End Story**

Hope you enjoyed that :D if you do, do leave a comment coz I'm a comment whore :P

Okay, I know that I have never mentioned the length of Jean's hair, and only made it known here. She did have long hair, as the image of Jean is somewhat a cross between John and Joan, but not the personality. I don't watch Elementary, so I'm basing Jean purely on John Watson.

If anyone is interested, I looked up the top twelve ways of telling real diamond from fakes. The two easiest, as in, the ones you don't need special equipments for, are the shine and the fog test. A diamond has a high refractive index so the shine will be sharp instead of dull when you hold it under the light, although it is also said that the shine would be a variation of gray shades instead of rainbow coloured. The fog test, is in which you fog the surface with your breath (this is when Jean sighed), and see if the fog clears quickly or not. A real diamond clears the fog very quickly compared to glass.

Someone had suggested that I write either 'The Mirror of the Magistrate' or 'The Actor and the Alibi' next, but it's still a book away from where I am currently. The next instalment might come out a bit late, as I have some reading to do first. I'll probably write something from the third book for the next instalment, but we shall see, shan't we? =)


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